


Dear Shadow Alive and Well

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Raiders, Things that happen to lost boys, Violence, Wilderness, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All wild, anything civilised gnawed at like old bones, cracked and hollow, marrow licked clean. Hungry ragged thing in the woods and snow prowling at the edges of villages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Shadow Alive and Well

All wild, anything civilised gnawed at like old bones, cracked and hollow, marrow licked clean. Hungry ragged thing in the woods and snow prowling at the edges of villages. Lock up your wives, your sons, your daughters, the wild boy and his pack are coming, all wrapped up in the furs of their kills with their lupine companions. Feral but not quite rabid. That's why he frightens them, him with the fury of a wraith of wind and winter. Lean glittering malice hungering for revenge. Watchful eyes. Pretends to be civilised sitting by the fire sometimes, sharing meat and mead when it suits him but it's a game because he's not anymore, only able to recall scraps from before it was all ripped away. The wolves took him in when no one else would; he howls still easier than he speaks but he knows the looks folk give him and he remembers. The bones that dangle from his neck and ears belong to men and beast alike but mostly men. Men's bones rattle better. Not the men who stole his life from him, miles away, maybe dead, their faces long forgotten. Doesn't matter. He doesn't care. He is ruthless, savage, bitter and always hungry.  
  
Raiders stole his home in a night of iron and fire. So young, little boy, little pup, all baby fat and big eyes. Doesn't remember much of that life but he remembers mama screaming with her eyes so wide. He can't remember what colour they were and her voice is only that awful scream that echoes in his head at night. She had dark curls, the colour of a raven's wing and even though grey threaded her temples it still shone blue in the sunlight. Papa ran to fight the men with those big axes they were never to touch, papa with his big rough hands carving toys at the fire or peeling apples. Papa's body in the street, blood coating his golden beard. He had brothers and sisters, songs and games. Can't remember how many of them or the words of the songs or the rules of the games, it's all a blur, laughter turning to tears. They fed him honey and oatcakes hot from the fire. Raiders killed the big boys but took him away with his sisters, so many miles by land and by ship, people sick and sobbing, bad smells and rolling beneath his feet. On land again his oldest sister (was she? Was she even kin?) grabbed a knife, screamed _run boy, run_ , then slit her pretty throat with a knife.  
  
Ran hard, ran fast. Didn't stop running even when his feet blistered and bled, soles black with dirt until he found the wolves and threw himself at them; better to be ripped to shreds by wolves than a slave, even baby boys knew that. The wolves circled, sniffed and nosed, howled and whined until out came the pups to nip and yap, wolf mother and wolf father carrying him off by the scruff to join them forever after. Brothers and sisters he had again, eating their raw meat, picking roots and berries. Days of sore bellies learning what not to eat curled with the wolves, running long miles and fashioning tools from snatches of memory, wickedly sharp wooden sticks until they came across a wild woman with tangled hair, a ramshackle hut in the woods where the wolves slept with full bellies as she took him in. She made him clothes to replace ripped and rotting rags, clipped the knots from his hair, wrestled him into a bath even as he bared his teeth in a fierce growl. He didn't know how long it had been since mama and papa screamed and died but he was skinnier, harder, dark circles under his eyes. Couldn't remember his name, couldn't remember many words at first or how to eat nice and proper at a table. She taught him. Raised him like a little hunter, teaching him letters, words, stitching, herbs, hunting, healing, reading signs, fighting like a man. The wolves left save for the run. He stayed. Brother, little brother, grey as storm clouds.  
  
Conrí and Faolán she called them. When they were grown and strong they left, hunting and growing stronger with every kill. The brothers roaming far and wide stealing sheep, cows and pigs when they felt lazy, raising the ire of farmers until the farmers learned to stop chasing them, bodies stripped and left out for crows and other scavengers or the first thaw of spring, whichever came first. Got a taste for human flesh, not for eating it but to chase, to kill, to sow terror. Little villages lived in fear of being picked off by these wolves in the dark even as others, the shifty sorts dark of heart and cruel of eye liked the thought of joining the brothers. One bold young man slew the little brother in some forgettable village. Rage consumed the elder and he rampaged to slaughter all, burned their homes, slashes with an iron sword stolen from an old kill until blood soaked the ground, crows blackening the sky as they circled ready to feast on this bounty. An older brother picked up his little brother, wept without sound, carrying him deep into the forest to bury him so nothing would disturb his bones, a great mound of stones to mark his final resting place. Then he went looking for the pack, wolf mother, wolf father and they were old, grey and grizzled with stiff joints and coarse fur but they knew him still and howled with him when he finally let loose his grief.  
  
Alone he left, alone he wandered. No one saw him for a time but the stories grew about this shadow that came to slake his bloodlust upon the innocent, half man, half wolf who slipped his skin as he chose, leader of all wolves, seeing through their eyes and hearing through their ears. The stories never reached him but another runt did, whining bag of bones he named Ylva and little sister and down they came from the mountain forests to grow strong. This time a pack came to find them, men and women hungry for violence or vengeance. Raiders they became to take what they wanted as his wolf sister brought with her lone wolves to surround them, the stuff of stories mothers whispered to bring unruly children to heel. Still he kept the company of his sister and her kind more than that of men or women, playing with her pups, wrestling with the adults until a brave young woman as wild as he snuck beneath his furs with a knife to his throat, laughing, biting at his lips. The only time he bared his throat in submission to anyone.  
  
Now she is his wife, beautiful in her wildness, fierce and untamed, mother to his own pups that roll around snapping and snarling with their wolf siblings. They roam where they will, retracing old steps he took to where villagers run and hide. Sometimes they leave them, showing mercy and other times they take what they want without bloodshed. They pass the scorched black earth of where he burned a village in retribution and he leads wife, children, sister and pups to a mound of stones covered in green moss and fallen leaves, bending his head low as he moans out Faolán and brother. They pass the hut where he learned much and out peers a tiny shrunken crone, no teeth, features lost in her many wrinkles, hands gnarled and misshapen. She watches them pass and shouts to tell them where to find a ship.  
  
Because he's going to reclaim what was his and he'll rule it with his wolf queens and tear apart anyone who dares to steal from him, the wild boy with his army, the stuff of scary stories who smiles so sweetly with blood hot and fresh on teeth and tongue and lips and chin.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tiger Mountain Peasant Song by the Fleet Foxes  
> Conrí means wolf king in Irish, Faolán means little wolf in Irish and Ylva means she-wolf in Swedish/Norwegian/Danish


End file.
